The School Mistress—A Strict Governess

The year is 1895. The place is a small schoolhouse in a remote part of the country. And our central character is a young school mistress called Jenny.

Our story begins on a fine autumn afternoon when Jenny is tidying up her things in the schoolroom. The children (there are only five) have left for the day.

The school house is an airy wooden structure set amongst some oak trees at the far side of a meadow, but within sight of the manor house.

It is a pretty setting: the leaves golden on the trees; the meadows so green they hurt the soul, and a range of purple mountains in the distance, whispering of forgotten dreams. A hint of the coming winter is in the air.

The school room is neat and orderly. Three rows of wooden desks run parallel to the windows, and at the front of the room is a larger desk for the school mistress. A blackboard still bears evidence of a lesson in arithmetic.

Jenny has gathered her books into a pile, and crosses the room to close the windows.

She is reaching up to grasp the mullion when she is disturbed by a tall young man who knocks on the open door and steps across the threshold with a smile.

He is a suitor, and he wears the confident grin of one who expects success.

They exchange a few pleasantries. After reminding her of his last visit, when she declined an invitation to picnic with him, he reminds her that she suggested ‘some other time’ and extends the invitation once again.

Once again she declines, pointing at the pile of books and saying that she must prepare for the next day’s lessons.

— o —

The school mistress has a reputation for being a strict teacher with her pupils, which does nothing to diminish her attraction to the young man.

He takes her in at a glance, and can’t fail to be excited by the way in which her firm breasts strain against her tight bodice, by the delicious curves of her tightly corseted waist, and by the flowing lines of her long petticoats.

Jenny has on two occasions consented to walk around the meadows with the young man, so they are not strangers. Indeed, they have established a humorous banter, full of innuendo and lovers’ threats. And anyway, they knew each other as children, before Jenny went away to the city at fourteen a decade earlier, so beneath the awkwardness of adults contemplating love there is the familiarity of childhood friends.

The young man is not unaware of whisperings about Jenny’s past.

His parents have cautioned that she is not a suitable match. But Jenny is so fine and composed that the rumours are hard to believe. And even if they are true, the young man is so drawn to her firm and unflinching character that he cannot keep away.

During their first walk the young man helped Jenny over a rickety sty, and while standing below her, to help her up, he had a very clear view of her ankles, snugly sheathed in their black mid-calf boots. He could not fail to notice how thoroughly they were laced, and the strictness of their closure gave him a thrill.

Later she picked up a slender fallen branch and, as they walked, she stripped the twigs and leaves from it until she had fashioned a flexible switch. With this she struck at the heads of wild flowers and the tops of tall grasses, so that the young man could not resist teasing her about her dexterity with the whip.

She pretended that she would strike him for teasing her, raising her arm and holding the switch aloft with a naughty expression. The young man stuck out his bum in a comical fashion, and she flicked him with the stick with much more force than he expected, making him smart and bite his tongue.

— o —

He had to hide his embarrassment, for he did not want her to think him unmanly. Still, the flick of the switch had not been intolerable, just a surprise.

He had heard rumours of her reputation for dishing out corporal punishment, but he had never taken them seriously, presuming they were the exaggerated stories of children.

When they were walking along again he asked her if she used a cane on her charges.

She replied, Yes, of course she did, for there was no other method to control unruly boys and girls. She seemed quite blasé about this, and offered no explanation or justification.

He looked down at his boots as they trod on autumn leaves and reflected quietly on his own sheltered education—his private governess in the manor house—and said nothing, for he would not have liked to confess that he had never had a beating in his life.

By their second walk, her penchant for using the whip had already become a facetious theme in their conversation, and twice she playfully threatened to punish him for his slightly forward remarks, which were in fact only compliments about her fine figure and narrow waist.

— o —

It is not altogether surprising, therefore, that now, as he stands in the doorway of the schoolhouse, he playfully threatens to spank her for yet again declining his invitation.

She retorts, less playfully, that she would gladly cane him for being a nuisance if she thought that he would be tough enough to withstand her blows.

Unwittingly—or with instinctive prescience, perhaps—she has touched on a sensitive spot, for his valour is untested and he is not confident of his courage. He thinks perhaps she noticed how he smarted from the little flick she gave him with the willow switch on their first walk.

He colours, and asks if she is suggesting that he is not brave enough to take a beating. She laughs easily, and says that there are not many men man enough to suffer her rod.

“You’re only a woman,” he retorts, “I’m sure you’d hardly raise a bruise.”

A hard look comes into her eyes.

“I have the best behaved class in the county,” she says evenly, “and that’s because I know how to use a whip. I’ll bet you your tea that I can make you howl with just six strokes.”

He laughs nervously.

“You mean, if I don’t cry out, you’ll accompany me to supper?”

“Precisely,” she says, and he agrees to the challenge because pain is something that can’t be properly comprehended until it has been experienced, and he has never had a cane across his cheeks.

 — o —

She crosses to the oak chair behind her desk, takes a coil of rope from her drawer, and tells him to let her tie him over the chair. He looks at her in astonishment.

“You don’t have to tie me down,” he says with a snigger.

“I insist upon it,” she replies.

After some argument, and because he wants to take her to dinner very badly, he agrees.

“Stand behind the chair and lean forward,” she instructs him.

He lowers himself down so that he is bent over the chair, his pelvis supported by the back of the chair and his elbows on the seat. It is an intimidating position and a sense of vulnerability makes his heart beat faster.

She crosses his wrists and loops the rope around them, and he watches in fascination as she lashes his arms together. There is nothing amateurish in her technique.

Having coiled the rope snugly around his wrists several times, she fastens a reef knot, and then loops the rope between his wrists, so that the first coils are pulled tight and his wrists are immovably lashed together.

“You are very thorough,” he says, pulling against the ropes and finding them secure.

She ignores him, pulls his wrists forward and down, and ties them to the cross-member between the legs of the chair. The position is uncomfortable, and he comments on it.

“If you find this little discomfort worth mentioning,” she remarks casually, “you’re definitely going to lose our wager.”

— o —

She takes another coil of rope from the desk drawer, and proceeds to tie his ankles to the back legs of the chair.

After twisting the rope around his left ankle several times, she passes it round the leg of the chair and draws his boot against the wood, where she lashes it firmly. Then she does the same with his other leg, so that he is fastened to the chair like a pig ready for slaughter.

He lifts his head from its almost upside-down position to watch her fetch her cane from behind the door, where it is hanging from a hook.

She arches it in her hands, and he notices that it is very supple and shiny. She cuts an arc through the air backwards and forwards, loosening up her shoulder, watching his face all the time. Then she smiles, and asks him if he’s ready. He tries to shrug.

“Of course,” he says, trying to sound casual and unconcerned.

She moves behind him, and he watches her through his legs and those of the chair.

Twice she swings the cane towards him, but stops short. He braces himself as he hears the hiss of the cane through the air, but grits his teeth in vain.

Still warming up, he thinks, or just trying to scare him. But the third time the blow strikes home. He closes his eyes against the pain, and hears the school mistress grunt with the effort of the stroke.

The pain is like an explosion, sharp, hot, and searing.

He is quite taken aback by it, for he had no idea that a stroke from a cane could hurt so much. He finds himself gasping for breath, and he strains helplessly against the ropes which hold him, as if he would like to move his backside away, or hold his hands against it.

He waits for the rush of heat to subside, but if anything it gets worse, and he grits his teeth desperately against the urge to curse or cry out.

— o —

“One!” says the school mistress in a crisp cool voice, and this almost breaks him.

In the rush of pain he’d forgotten that this was the first of six. Jesus, not another one, he thinks, and the cheeks of his bum shrink and cringe in fear. The urge to ask her to stop is overwhelming, but he grits his teeth and steadies his breathing.

She crouches down in front of him, and pushes the hair away from his forehead.

“How was that, big boy?” she asks, “a bit more than you expected?” As he doesn’t answer, she goes on. “They get a lot worse after the first one, I can assure you.” And then with a little kiss, “Be brave.”

She rises, and the swish of her skirts, which seem to leave behind a cool sweet fragrance, are maddening because of his helplessness.

She moves behind him again, and plants her feet firmly. He takes a deep breath. But the blow doesn’t come, and he realises that she is waiting until he is not quite ready. And even though he can see her through his legs, he is never sure, when she pulls back her arm, if she is actually going to deliver the blow or not.

She feints once or twice, and then just as he lets out his breath, the second blow lands.

As she had warned, it is much worse than the first, and without realising it, he cries out. Not a scream or a sob, but a noise which comes of fighting against the pain—a sort of grunt or moan. Still, she takes it as a victory. When he opens his eyes after a moment, she is crouching next to him.

“Well, you’ve lost the wager already,” she says evenly, “but of course, you have to go the full distance. Seeing as you’ve already lost, I’m going to make it easier for you. Open your mouth.”

— o —

He sees that in her hands she has a kind of gag. It is a wooden bit with cloth straps attached to each end. He says nothing but shakes his head as she moves it towards him, and turns his face away when she tries to put it in his mouth.

She stands up. Just as he is concluding, without attaching much importance to it, that she is not going to press the issue, she grabs his hair with her left hand and yanks his head up.

He opens his mouth to cry out in protest, and she takes the opportunity to ram the bit between his teeth, knotting the straps quickly behind his head.

She fastens the gag very tightly and it pulls his cheeks back. He is still trying to object but he cannot say anything intelligible; he gives up after a few moments.

He watches helplessly as she moves behind him again and prepares for the third blow. This time she practises her stroke like a golfer practising his swing, taking careful aim, and bringing the cane through a studied arc and stopping with a gentle touch.

The performance is designed to build up suspense, which it does most effectively, and he finds himself straining against the ropes in fearful anticipation.

Suddenly the blow lands, and the shock of it again takes him by surprise. He moans and groans and wishes he could take his hands to his buttocks. He twists and wriggles helplessly as he desperately tries to shake off the hot burning pain which seems to take so long to subside.

— o —

When he opens his eyes, which he has closed without realising it, she is in front of him removing her gloves. Then she turns another chair around and begins to hitch up her skirts.

He stares at her elegant tightly laced boots, pert yet sturdy, and the lace trimmed bloomers which shroud her legs. The vision arouses him, and he wonders what she is doing.

She offers no explanation; indeed, although she seems to position herself so that he can see what she is doing, she continues without glancing at him, as if she has forgotten he is there.

In full view of him she places her foot on the seat of the second chair and, leaning forward with her skirts gathered up on her thigh, begins to untie her boots and to pull the laces from their eyelets.

Although she is quick and adept, it takes several minutes for her to remove both boots. The short striped socks she wears over her stockings somehow make her legs even more alluring.

With both boots and socks removed, and placed neatly upon the chair, she stands up holding her gathered skirts in her hands. She reaches under her petticoats and, after some groping, pulls off her stockings, rolling each one down her leg until it can be drawn off her foot.

Her dexterity—removing her stockings without removing her bloomers—fills him with a strange admiration.

She places the stockings next to the boots on the chair, and then sets about putting her boots back on. He watches as she puts on each sock in turn and painstakingly laces up the boots, which extend half way up her shin.

He counts twenty pairs of eyelets, and she doesn’t skip any and doesn’t tolerate any slackness in any of the crosses, but tugs at the laces with a peculiar determination.

— o —

The young man has never seen a lady’s legs, and he finds himself panting into his gag. He thinks he has never seen such fine legs, not even in the dirty pictures he keeps under his bed, and he feels the terrible ache of desire in his belly.

At the same time, he is perplexed, not understanding what she is doing. Was she feeling too warm with her stockings on? But it is a cool day, and that doesn’t make sense. Does she plan something sexual? Surely not the prim and proper school mistress? And yet this thought excites him very much, and he cannot stop his member from bulging stiffly in his pants.

Her plans for her stockings are soon revealed.

Forming one of her stockings into a ribbon she stands next to him and makes to tie it around his eyes as a blindfold.

He shakes his head to discourage her, so that she is forced, after a few moments, to seize his hair in her fist and yank his head backwards. He gasps at the sting of having his hair pulled so violently a second time and the water springs into his eyes

“Let me blindfold you,” she says calmly, “or I will make it twenty strokes.”

And because the sting of the first three strokes are still hot upon his cheeks, and because the way she has pulled his hair intimidates him, he immediately surrenders to her will.

She ties one stocking tightly around his eyes; it is warm and fragrant, and the sensation of something so smooth and silky about his face, something which a few minutes before lay against her milky skin, makes him feel he will spontaneously ejaculate into his trousers, and he has to concentrate on other thoughts to make this not happen.

— o —

The darkness of the blindfold, which is well tied, leaves him feeling even more helpless.

He hears soft sounds which he cannot at first interpret, but guesses that she is putting her gloves back on.

Now he cannot see where she is, and has no way of knowing when to expect the next blow. Suspecting that she is getting ready for the next stroke, he tries to protest through the gag. He can only grunt and mewl.

And then, to his further astonishment, he feels her hands at his belt. Helpless to intervene, he feels his fly being loosened and his trousers and underpants being tugged down around his thighs so that his naked arse is exposed to the cool air. Worse still, he realises that his erect penis is now also exposed.

With this realisation his inarticulate protests stop and he falls silent.

A gloved hand closes round the shaft of his penis, and his level of arousal becomes explosive.

His desire to ejaculate conflicts with the sense of humiliation he will feel if he should come from her slight touch.

She caresses his hard penis once only, and just when he feels he cannot hold back the grip is released, leaving him gasping and wishing he had in fact ejaculated, for it is tortuous being on the edge of the precipice.

A moment later he feels something being tied around the base of his penis—the other stocking, he realised—pulled tight behind the balls. A moment later the free end is pulled down and tied to the cross member of the chair back so that the penis is under constant pressure. He realises that wriggling and moving his bums and hips will now have a new consequence: it will painfully increase the strain on his cock.

— o —

The next three blows are sheer torture.

With his buttocks bare the strokes burn like hot coals, and his yearning to put his hands over his blazing cheeks just makes the ropes cut into his wrists that much more.

Every involuntary movement away from the fiery agony puts arousing pressure on his penis and testicles, and he twists and moans in utter frustration. And yet even as he starts to cry through his gag like a child, his penis remains erect.

Abruptly, it is over, and all is quiet for some time.

The pain does not immediately subside, but waxes and wanes like the coals of a fire under a fickle breeze, and just when he feels the heat passing, it seems to flare up again. But the sensation is progressively less intense, and after a time he feels more in control.

He strains his ears; he can hear nothing.

Has she abandoned him?

He becomes more aware of his general discomfort: the rope cutting into his wrists and ankles; the awkward angle of his knees and the tension in his legs; the hardness of the back of the chair pressing into his midriff; and, of course, the strain on his swollen cock.

He calls out, but the sound is gross and idiotic, and he lapses back into silence.

He feels humiliated and cowed. The silence in the room makes him think mad thoughts; that she has gone to call someone to show what she has done, or that she will leave him there for hours until a farmhand finds him.

As if the indignity of his naked bruised backside sticking up in the air is not enough, he finds he cannot swallow properly with the gag in his mouth, and he cannot prevent himself drooling. He feels the slobber running down his chin.

— o —

After what seems like a considerable time he hears the rustle of her skirts and feels her hands at the ropes.

The stocking holding his penis is untied from the chair, but remains knotted behind his balls. He feels the gag being loosened and a bare hand wipes the drool from his chin.

With his hands free he makes to remove the blindfold as he stands up, but a soft hand arrests his fingers and a soft whisper close to his ear encourages him to leave it in place.

“Lie down here, on your back,” she says in a husky voice which is now full of gentleness.

Instinct tells him that he is safe in her hands, and he sinks down gratefully. 

He feels her step over him, and then she sinks down upon him, taking his throbbing shaft inside her.

The weight on his pelvis causes protests from his tender behind, but it is a warm bruised sensation rather than a sharp pain, and anyway his desire is far too great to be overwhelmed by the discomfort of his beating.

Unseeing behind the blindfold, he strains upwards towards her tight hot wet cunt, almost weeping with the sweetness of intercourse contrasting so powerfully with the brutality of a few minutes before.

He lies still after the orgasm and listens to her stand up and straighten her skirts.

She bends down and pushes the blindfold back on his forehead, and when she straightens up she towers over his prostrate form.

She stares down at him for a few moments, and then she raises her skirts a fraction, lifts her foot, and places the sole of her boot against his lips.

“You lost the bet, so I must again decline your invitation. But anytime you’d like another beating,” she says softly, “just let me know. Please tidy up. Lock the door behind you when you leave, and put the key under the mat.”

And then she is gone, leaving him with her stockings.